


Air Supply

by thinkpink20



Category: House M.D.
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Air Supply

The first time House kisses Wilson, Wilson knows that something is about to happen but is not sure what. He has learnt this extra sensorary skill, being able to tell when House is Up To Something or has Something Planned. Usually House confines his madness to annoying his fellows or springing nasty and unwarranted tests on fussy clinic patients, but he senses - quite rightly - when they are sitting on the sofa watching yet another WWE throwdown, that House has now turned his madness on him.

The first sign Wilson gets is that House is still; House is never still, he lives in a permenant state of twitching, or at least he has done since the infarction. He only ever goes still when he is asleep and even then Wilson doesn't trust him, has to check his breathing to tell if House is fake-sleeping for some nefarious purpose. 

The second sign Wilson gets is that House is being serious. Deadly serious. No mocking, no sarcasm, no random comments about his hair or his Judaism or his pocket protector. This unseats Wilson more than anything, because House without barbed comments is like Chase without flicky hair or Cuddy without her cleavage on show. 

The third - and final - sign Wilson gets is when House uses the handle of his cane to drag the footstool with the remote control on nearer and uses it to switch off the television. The room goes immediately silent and the tension ranks up about five notches.

Wilson isn't sure what's coming but understands that House is rarely ever this serious about anything and so he waits the silence out like the patient little boy he was taught to be by his parents. And he watches as House craddles the remote in his hand, thumb idly flicking over the power button. Wilson feels his mouth go dry but isn't exactly sure why.

"We need to talk," House says. This is like Al Queda saying, 'Ah, fuck all this bombing, let's be friends!' You immediately get the sense that something is very, very wrong.

"Are you dying?"

Wilson asks this because it's the only thing he can think of that House would be this serious about. Big wrestler number one was about to slam big wrestler number two into the incredibly padded mattress floor - that isn't the sort of thing House likes to miss, if he can help it.

"What?!"

"Are you - "

"Yes, I heard you."

"So why did you - "

"It was indignation, not deafness."

Wilson wrinkles his bushy eyebrows and then looks down at House holding the remote control again. He is no longer fingering the button without thinking about it. "So what...?" He doesn't know what could be more grave than death, what could warrant so much silence and prepared thinking.

"There's something I need to say," House says. His voice has taken on a gruff, gravelled tone that some part of Wilson has never heard before but registers as pleasing but immediately squashes that thought. Before he can ask what it is that House wants to say, House is speaking again and he has to pull his brain into gear to listen.

"Come here," House says. Wilson realises he is being stared at rather intensely and he searches House's eyes for a moment - oh so blue - to try and work out what's going on here. House must want to whisper whatever this news is to him, which is very odd, and Wilson briefly wonders if this is one of those schoolboy pranks where he gets close and then House shouts and causes him temporary ear-drum failure. He wouldn't put it past him.

It all seems a little bit serious for that though, so Wilson leans in. He angles his face away so that his ear is avaliable for optimum whispering potential and is ready to listen - all of which means that his brain is too sluggishly surprised to respond when House (ever so gently) angles his face back and kisses his mouth.

Lips on his was not what Wilson was expecting.

House's lips are warm, he registers, and - is that hesitancy? House kisses him once, twice and then parts his lips when he kisses him a third time.

This, Wilson thinks through a fog of confusion, is very unusual.

But where his brain is slow, his body is quick to respond as though somehow it knew really, had expected this but just not let his brain in on the big cosmic joke. He kisses House back, open mouthed and messy and abandoning any sense of polite, first kiss rules that House had been using.

Something that House responds to immediately. Remote control from his hand abandoned, House now grips the lightly pin-striped material of Wilson's work trousers and twists the fabric between his fingers. Some stupid, fazed-out corner of Wilson's brain makes a mental note to put them in the hotel trouser press tonight before bed.

What really startles him is House speaking. That gravelled voice - the tone of which he now realises is arousal, which explains why he'd never heard it before - says mid-kiss, inches from his mouth, "Fuck."

Just that one word implies several things; pleasure, disbelief, desperation and, most importantly, that House seems to have lost something he was holding onto. Some sort of restraint. The implication sends an unexpected jolt of pleasure somewhere deep in Wilson's groin.

Then they are no longer kissing, just sitting there pressed far too closely to one another to be completely platonic and breathing far too heavily to be considered normal. Wilson doesn't want the kissing to stop because although he isn't utterly sure what is going on here, he doesn't want House to have time to think that through too much for fear he may put an end to this completely.

One look at House's eyes, however, tell him that he doesn't have too much to worry about; his pupils are dilated heavily (Wilson refuses to believe that's the Vicodin) and they're clouded over with something that looks suspiciously like want. Wilson feels an undenaible stab of triumph; House is looking at him as though he's a particularly peculiar A&E patient with a list of strange symptoms. 

"Is this..." House sounds wary and his voice breaks a little bit as though he hasn't used it in years rather than moments. Though he doesn't seem to know what it is he wants to say, Wilson does.

"Okay? Yes. Yes it is."

They spend a moment staring at one another, Wilson willing House not to break now, watching his eyes incase they de-mist and he becomes that stark, snapping shell that Wilson knows - and loves - so well.

Then House is kissing him again, treating Wilson like some sort of air supply.

And Wilson lets him. Gladly.


End file.
